


Or I Could Show You

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, PWP, Valentine’s Day, seriously, there’s no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: It’s Valentine’s Day. Sherlock and John celebrate being single with chocolate cake, wine, scotch, and scintillating conversation.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 102
Collections: Be my Valentine - Johnlock Collection





	Or I Could Show You

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should apologize, but I shan’t.

John had come home that evening with a bottle of Sherlock’s favorite wine and the most decadent chocolate cake he could find at the local bakery. He hadn’t had anything put on it, no words or candles, but it was Valentine’s Day, and the least they could do to celebrate was drink and eat cake. It wasn’t as if John had anyone else to celebrate it with, and if he was honest, no one else he would want to celebrate with anyway. 

Sherlock had smiled when John poured the wine and sliced the cake and accepted the wine without a word spoken between them. As the bottle emptied, they moved on to the scotch, which was how they found themselves in front of the fire, the evening slowing down around them and the warmth of each other's presence surrounding them.

Flickering flames from the fire cast warm light and shadows across Sherlock’s face as he sat across from John in his armchair, long legs stretched out for miles in front of him, their bare feet resting close together. The man’s eyes were closed, thinking who knew what, and John took full advantage of the time to let his eyes wander. The lean legs, the sharp cheekbones, the strong nose and full lips. He was beautiful and John swirled the amber liquid in his glass idly as he imagined those lips under his own. 

He didn’t often let his mind wander in that direction, but the strong drink in his blood and Sherlock’s closed eyes gave him the confidence to ignore how dangerous those thoughts could be. 

John leaned back in his chair, letting his feet slip a bit on the rug, closer to Sherlock’s, but not touching. He took a sip of his scotch, letting the drink sit on his tongue to savour the smoky taste, before swallowing it down and feeling the burn travel down his throat and settle warm in his belly.

He let himself imagine reaching forward with his foot and rubbing it against the high arch of Sherlock’s instep. Just a brush of bare skin. He could practically feel his skin thrumming at the imagined sensation and didn’t bother repressing the delightful shiver that ran through him. It would take very little effort for him to lean forward, to fall to his knees between the vee of Sherlock’s splayed legs and let his hands trace up those long limbs, up the calves and firm thighs. Or maybe he could stand up, place his hand down on the arms of Sherlock’s chair, let his knee rest between those long legs instead, and take Sherlock’s gorgeous lips with his own.

He tossed back the rest of his scotch and set his glass down on the table beside his chair. Sherlock was still as he continued to sit quietly and John was content to live in that moment and the fantasies his mind provided.

Maybe he could take Sherlock’s hand and pull him over into his chair, into John’s lap. Let his weight sit heavy and intoxicating on him as he nuzzled into Sherlock’s long neck, licking and biting and kissing the porcelain skin. Sucking on that mole that taunted him. 

John wanted. His body was alive with it, his heart beating heavy in his chest as the blood rushed through his veins and his skin tingled. 

Sherlock’s lips quirked up suddenly, a smile playing on the edges as he thought of something, and John felt a smile pull at his own mouth. He could watch Sherlock for hours. He often did. He was sure Sherlock knew, on some level, because Sherlock saw everything. He never said anything, though, so John had decided to keep watching until he was told to stop. It hadn’t happened yet and he figured as long as he was discreet enough about it, it wouldn’t be a problem. 

His eyes and mind wandered again, floating on alcohol and a low level of simmering arousal. 

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice was deep and low, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. John’s eyes flicked up from his examination of Sherlock’s feet and just how close he could let his own feet come to them without touching, but Sherlock’s eyes were still closed. 

“Hm?” John asked, unable or unwilling to articulate more than that.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing in particular,” he responded easily.

“You must be thinking about something. What is it?”

“Why must I?

“Your breathing has accelerated and you keep fidgeting your feet.”

“What do you think I’m thinking about, then?”

“How should I know?” Sherlock asked, though there was a hint of challenge in his tone. John smiled.

“You’re the detective.”

“Doesn’t make me a mind reader.”

“Come on. What am I thinking about?” John challenged.

Sherlock’s smile quirked up again and John watched silently, one finger absently stroking along his bottom lip.

“Something stimulating.”

“Stimulating how?”

“You’re thinking about sex,” Sherlock stated, confident and sure.

John felt another thrum of arousal at Sherlock’s seemingly absent-minded deduction. How he could read John’s body with his eyes closed was nearly intoxicating.

“Hmm.” He agreed.

Sherlock’s eyes opened and his eyes flashed silver in the flames of the fire as he looked at John. Observed John.

“Hm, yes. Your pupils are dilated. Your heart rate is elevated. You're touching your mouth.”

John put his hand down and smiled at Sherlock.

“You are clever.”

Sherlock leaned forward, pulling in his legs and bracing his elbows on his knees, as he looked closer at John.

“Now the interesting questions are why you’re thinking about sex. That’s easy. You’re a very physical man with an abundant sexual appetite. You haven’t been with anyone in...three months. You’re not desperate for it, but you are craving it.”

John arched his brows. 

“Two months.”

“I hardly think that waitress counts.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a waitress,” John corrected, his mind flickering back to the toilets in a club in Soho. Perhaps not the best sex he’s had, but a blow job to let off some steam had been infinitely better than his hand in the shower. Perhaps Sherlock didn’t see everything, after all.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and John grinned. 

“Two months. Then the what. What made you think about sex? Something in the room? A memory? A scent? Could be any of the above or none.”

John agreed with a shrug.

“Which leads us to the who. Who are you thinking about? Anyone in particular, or a random stranger, or no one at all? Just a fantasy, perhaps.”

“You’re thinking a lot about this,” John said, holding back his smile.

“You told me to tell you what you were thinking about.”

“Yes, I did. And you got it right. Well done.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair again with a satisfied smile and crossed his long legs.

“Shall I go on?”

“Is there more?” 

“Of course there’s more.”

“I’d love to hear what you think,” John replied with a lazy smile.

“Would you?” Sherlock asked, one brow arching up, which John found impressive considering how much alcohol they had managed to consume in the last three hours. 

John hummed in reply. 

“Hmm. You’re thinking about what you want to do. Fantasizing about something.”

“Well, half the fun is the fantasy,” John replied.

“I rather thought the fun was in the action,” Sherlock answered and John’s brow arched up. “Yes. It’s interesting to think about the fantasy, to plot, but the fun is in the execution of the fantasy,” Sherlock continued. 

“Sure,” John agreed after a moment. “But the point of the fantasy is that it’s most likely something that won’t happen. That’s what makes it fun.”

“Why not make the fantasy a reality?” Sherlock asked with a tilt of his head, his eyes locked on him.

John stared at Sherlock for several moments, his mind fuzzy and swirling at the question. Why not make the fantasy a reality? Well, several reasons. Reasons that were hard to remember when the object of said fantasies was sitting across from him, watching him with silver eyes that flashed with hat and that sharp intellect that enchanted John. Why not just lean forward and put a hand on his knee?

But no. No, that was a terrible idea. They didn’t do that. That wasn’t their relationship.

He struggled with a thought, something to change the charged atmosphere.

“Well, it’s Valentine’s Day. Cupid and love and all that. Everyone is thinking about sex and fantasies today.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled into a sharp grin at that and John swallowed at the sight of it.

“I rather enjoy fantasizing.”

“About sex?” John asked, unable to hold back the question. 

“What else would I fantasize about, John?”

“Murder, I would think.”

Sherlock grinned at that and John responded with his own grin.

“Perhaps. But I meant sex just now.”

John’s mouth was dry and he wished he hadn’t finished his scotch. He licked his bottom lip and his lower body clenched as he watched Sherlock track the movement of his tongue.

“Would you like me to tell you one of my favorite fantasies?” Sherlock asked. “Or I could show you.” 

Sherlock hadn’t looked away from John. He wasn’t even sure the other man had blinked. There was something in the way he was staring that made John’s muscles clench, his belly swooping low.

“Show me,” John said, the scotch and the look in Sherlock’s eye loosening his tongue.

Sherlock’s grin turned predatory as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. He rose to his feet in front of John and he let his gaze travel up Sherlock’s lean body, the black trousers that clung to his legs, the white silk button-up that had come half untucked as they had made their way through the wine and scotch. 

Sherlock leaned down, one hand braced against the armchair and the other coming up to cup John’s jaw. Sherlock’s thumb traced under his bottom lip and John gasped at the sensation. Sherlock’s eyes were locked on his, watching his every move, and John let his tongue flick out, brushing it against his thumb, the sharp tang of salty skin flooding his mouth, and watched as Sherlock’s eyes went nearly black with desire.

“One fantasy I have involves you on your knees, right here in our living room.” Sherlock’s voice is low, deeper than John had ever heard it before, and John felt his body respond to the voice as much as the image the words created.

John felt his mouth as it opened slightly under the feeling of Sherlock’s thumb as it trailed under his bottom lip again. 

“We come home from a case, both high on the adrenaline, the rush, and you can’t keep your hands off me. You grab me. Pull me close to you. You want me and you can’t wait. You drop to your knees as you pull at my belt, my trousers. You don’t even push down my pants before you have your mouth on me.”

John’s mouth flooded with saliva at his words. It was if Sherlock had opened his mind and plucked out one of his own fantasies and gave it life. His voice was low and seductive and John was mesmerized. Sherlock was the charmer and John was completely enthralled, swept up into the images that Sherlock portrayed.

Sherlock leaned down further, his mouth inches from John’s, his warm breath ghosting over his lips.

“I beg you to stop teasing me as you suck me through my pants. You’re kind, though, John. You don’t make me wait. You push my pants down and stare at me. At my cock. At how hard I am for you. The things you do to me. You put your mouth on me, taking me deep, and your eyes stay on mine the whole time.”

 _Oh, God_ , John thought, as blood rushed from his brain to his fastly filling cock. Sherlock speaking was better than any porn he had ever watched, any sex he had ever had. And they had barely touched.

“You take me so deep, John. You look so beautiful with my cock in your mouth. Your throat is so tight as you swallow me. Your hands on my arse, fingers tight and bruising as you push me into you. You want me to fuck your mouth. You want all of me.”

 _Yes_ , John agreed. He wanted Sherlock to use him. To use him for his pleasure and his lust. 

Sherlock’s thumb made another pass and John quickly opened his mouth further and sucked the digit into his mouth. His tongue pressed against Sherlock’s thumb before he swirled it around the tip, his teeth biting down gently on the nail and the fleshy pad. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered at the sensation and John couldn’t bite back his groan in response.

“You’re so desperate for me, John. You pull me into you and I want you to be happy. I oblige. I pull back, nearly all the way out, before sliding back into your hot mouth, all the way in, and you’re so good at this, John. You’re so good at taking me in. I want to be gentle because I don’t want to hurt you, but you keep demanding more with your eyes and your hands and your moans. So I move faster, fucking into your mouth because that’s what you want, and I want you to get what you want. You can barely keep your eyes open and on me, you’re so lost in the feel of me, but you do. You keep your eyes open and watch me fuck your mouth, watch me as I get closer, your hands clutching my arse, and then, when I’m so close, one hand reaches back and you press against me, John, and it’s so good, so good, and I can’t hold back as the tip of your finger pushes into me, and I come down your throat. I come so hard I see stars and you swallow around me. You’re so good to me. You swallow and lick me clean and I can barely stand. You push me down into my chair and -”

John pushed forward the bare inches they were from each other and closed his mouth over Sherlock’s. He couldn’t handle another word without touching the man. He swiped his tongue against Sherlock’s lip and the other man opened for him immediately, welcoming him in, and they both moaned at the pleasure of tongues sliding against each other. 

Sherlock tasted of the scotch they shared, the rich chocolate of the cake, and John wanted more. He wanted to taste Sherlock, the essence of him, and his hands flew to his trousers where he quickly worked open the belt at his waist. He pushed forward, landing on his knees in front of Sherlock, and he wanted to fulfil the fantasy that Sherlock had shared. He wanted to see Sherlock come undone under his hands and mouth. 

He pushed Sherlock’s trousers and pants down, unable and unwilling to wait another moment longer, and took in the glorious sight of Sherlock’s cock at eye-level. It was long and lean, rather like the man himself. Hard and flushed and beautiful. He was already leaking at the tip, as turned on by his telling of the fantasy as John was, and John leaned forward to lick at the fluid and groaned at the salt and musk that hit his tongue. Above him, Sherlock moaned as his hips bucked unconsciously.

John took that as all the invitation he needed. He wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock, taking in the feel of the silky smooth skin, the heft of him, before he leaned forward. He looked up, unsurprised to find Sherlock’s eyes on him, and kept contact as he wrapped his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock watched him hungrily, his eyes every bit as sharp and calculating as they were at a crime scene, and John felt nearly transcendent at being the recipient of that gaze. He took more of Sherlock into his mouth, letting his throat relax to prove to Sherlock that his fantasy could be reality. He didn’t stop until his nose was buried in the dark curls at the base of his cock and he breathed in the smell of the man, of Sherlock, there. He pulled back and off, then licked from base to tip as Sherlock watched him. 

Sherlock’s thighs shook as John took him in again, all the way in, and when he swallowed around him, he let out a soft cry. John lost himself in the feel of Sherlock on his tongue, the taste of him in his mouth. His own arousal was secondary as he focused on Sherlock, on giving him the pleasure he sought, on being allowed to give that pleasure. He was so lost in the feeling that it took a sharp tug of his hair before he realized Sherlock had been speaking to him. When he pulled off, Sherlock practically yanked him to his feet before leaning down and pushing his tongue into John’s mouth in a messy kiss.

They pulled back for a breath and John bent his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, pressing kisses and gentle bites into that porcelain skin as he had so often imagined. 

“John, I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock said, his voice like gravel, and John bit down a moan into the skin of Sherlock’s neck, feeling the man arch into him, and he licked over the spot to soothe it. 

“Bed,” John gasped into his skin and Sherlock nodded, pressing into him and pushing him backwards a step before releasing him and pushing his own trousers and pants all the way off. 

Sherlock grabbed his hand, leading him through the kitchen and into his bedroom at the end of the hallway. When they entered the bedroom, Sherlock turned and pressed him into the wall beside the open door, one strong thigh pushing between his legs and John groaned at the contact as Sherlock pressed open mouth kisses into his neck. 

John’s fingers made quick work of Sherlock’s shirt, unbuttoning with shaky fingers, until he could push the garment off the man and carelessly onto the floor while Sherlock removed John’s belt, thumbed open his trousers, and reached his hand into John’s pants. John bucked into Sherlock’s fist as it closed around him. The heat of his hand and the mouth on his neck was nearly overwhelming and John felt his head hit the wall behind him.

Sherlock kissed up from his neck, along his jaw, to his ear. His breath was hot on his skin and John shivered at the feel of it tickling his ear as Sherlock bit gently on his earlobe before pulling off.

“So many times I’ve thought about your cock, John. Tried to deduce you. What you looked like, the shape and feel of you, what you would taste like. I’ve had so many fantasies about finding out. Coming up with experiments that would give me a reason to look at you. Hold you in my hand like this,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, his hand tight and giving a delicious twist on the upstroke. 

John felt his balls tighten at his words and bit his bottom lip as his hips fucked into Sherlock’s large fist. 

“If you keep talking like that I’m going to come,” John confessed and Sherlock chuckled before giving one more squeeze and letting go.

“You don’t come until I say so, Captain,” he commanded and John felt his knees go weak as his cock twitched.

“Oh God,” he said, instead, and felt Sherlock smile into his neck. 

“Not quite,” he said, and tugged John’s jumper swiftly over his head, followed by his vest, then trousers and pants. 

John pushed back into Sherlock, then, guiding him back to the bed as they shared kisses that were far more gentle than John would have expected in that moment. When Sherlock’s knees hit the mattress, John pushed one more kiss against his lips before he pulled back.

“Up the bed, Sherlock. Hands and knees.”

Sherlock did as John requested and John watched him as the other man grabbed a pillow and rested his arms and head on it, his arse in the air and presented without shame for him. God, he was beautiful. John simply stared for several moments before Sherlock turned his head to look back at him, a smile on his face and a brow quirked. 

“See something you like?”

John made his way onto the bed and swatted a gentle hand on Sherlock’s arse. “Cheeky. Lube?”

“Bedside drawer,” Sherlock replied with a flick of his head towards the table.

John leaned and pulled the drawer open and found the bottle. “Condoms?”

“You’re clean. I’m clean,” Sherlock replied, and John didn’t bother asking how Sherlock knew that he had recently been tested. And he trusted Sherlock when he said he was clean. 

John tossed the lube beside him on the bed and let his hands trace up the back of Sherlock’s thighs, trailing through the sparse dark hair there, and up to his arse where he gently kneaded the muscle there. His eyes roamed over the expanse of his back, the skin that bore the scars of a body used to physical altercations, but still perfect in John’s eye. The heavy weight of his cock and balls as they hung between his legs. John’s thumbs traced through the crease of Sherlock’s body and his back arched as they trailed over his entrance. 

“John, I want you,” Sherlock spoke over his shoulder.

“You have me,” John replied, looking up at the other man before he pulled Sherlock’s cheeks apart and licked a broad stripe from balls to tailbone and Sherlock bucked beneath him.

“Fuck,” Sherlock breathed out and John groaned at the sound of the explictive in that posh voice. 

“That’s the idea,” he teased before bending again to his task. 

He licked another broad stoke over him before focusing his attention on Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock tasted of salt and musk and John felt his cock twitch and leak as he tightened his tongue and circled Sherlock’s rim. He licked and sucked and prodded his tongue, feeling the muscle twitch and loosen under the assault while Sherlock practically mewled into his pillow.

The sound of Sherlock’s soft curses and pants and groans filled the air as John worked him open with his tongue. He felt the muscle give and John pressed his tongue into Sherlock, tasting him, and Sherlock pushed shamelessly back into him, seeking his pleasure and John thought he could do that forever. 

John reached blindly for the lube he had put down earlier and quickly slicked his fingers after finding it. He pulled back just enough to slide a finger in and met no resistance. He worked the finger in and out, mesmerized by the sight of his finger in Sherlock’s body, and carefully worked a second finger inside. Sherlock moaned appreciatively at the addition and John leaned back down to work his tongue around his rim, pressing into him along with his fingers. When he twisted his hand and pushed his fingers into the bundle of nerves inside, Sherlock cried out and John had never heard a more beautiful sound. 

John continued to press into Sherlock’s prostate between fucking his fingers into him, scissoring them and adding his tongue occasionally, until Sherlock was a sweaty, incoherent mess. 

“Please, John. I’m ready. Fuck me.” He was breathless and sounded completely wreaked already and John was forcefully reminded of his own cock, heavy and so far neglected. 

_Jesus_ , John thought. He wasn’t sure he would be able to survive fucking Sherlock Holmes if this was what it was like. 

If it would be more than this one. 

He wasn’t sure what Sherlock had in mind. If he saw this being a recurring thing or just this one night. 

John had his preferences, but if tonight was the only night he had, then he was going to make it the best night and shag Sherlock ever had. He wanted to ruin the other man for anyone else. 

He gently pulled his fingers out and Sherlock whined at the sudden emptiness. John slicked more lube onto his cock as he watched Sherlock’s hole clench around air, just waiting for him to fill him. He looked back up to Sherlock. 

“How do you want to do this?” 

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, then flipped gracefully onto his back, slipping a pillow under him to prop his hips up. 

John looked at him, at the beautiful man stretched out atop the sheets. He was flushed pink from his cheeks to his upper chest, and John wanted to just look and admire him, but Sherlock wanted him to fuck him, and John’s cock was done being ignored. 

“You’re beautiful,” John said as he grabbed his cock and lined himself up to Sherlock’s entrance. He looked into his eyes as he slowly began to push into him.

Sherlock’s back arched up off the bed as John’s cock slipped into him and John held back a cry as he felt that tight clench of blissful heat surround the head of his prick. 

He was going to die. He was going to die fucking Sherlock and he would die a happy man. He knew it. 

Sherlock pulled him down, causing him to slip further in, and they both groaned as Sherlock kissed him again. Sherlock’s tongue was hot in his mouth and his body was hot as it closed over his cock and John was dead. 

They panted into each other’s mouths as John bottomed out, his balls tight against Sherlock’s arse, as they waited for Sherlock to adjust. John’s body was demanding he move, but he refused to hurt Sherlock, and he held painfully still until Sherlock gave a small nod and a wiggle of his hips. 

John pulled back a few inches before slowly pushing back in and dying just a bit more. 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispered and John took his mouth again because he would come if Sherlock kept talking and he wanted this to last. 

Sherlock met his kiss, tongues and teeth and lips meeting as their bodies moved together. John’s hips snapping faster into Sherlock as the other man sighed and moaned and demanded _more,_ and _harder_ , and _faster_. 

Sherlock’s voice, low and needy and demanding, the sharp slap of skin against skin, the scent of sex and sweat in the air, Sherlock’s hands clutching and scratching and holding him, was coming together in such a perfect symphony of lust and desire that John knew he wouldn’t last much longer. 

Sherlock’s breaths were coming quicker and John knew he was close. He reached down between them and grasped Sherlock’s cock with his still slick hand, and watched completely mesmerized as Sherlock fucked himself into John’s fist and on John’s cock. 

“So beautiful, Sherlock. God, you should see yourself. I want to see you come.”

Sherlock let out a sound that sounded almost like a sob as he started to come. Long ropes of come shot out and splattered over his chest and stomach as his back bowed, head thrown back and mouth open on a silent cry. His arse clenched around John and he pulled Sherlock’s hips tighter to him, fucking into him faster. 

“Yes, John, _yes_. Fuck me, keep going,” Sherlock said, his voice wreaked, but just as demanding. “Such a good soldier following orders. Are you ready to come?”

John nearly whined at Sherlock’s words, his hips hitting a brutal pace that Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. Sherlock’s legs wrapped tightly around him, bringing him closer, his hips meeting his even as his body had to be overstimulated, but Sherlock didn’t seem to care as he stared up at John.

“Come, John. Come now. Fill me up. I want to feel you for days.”

John lost control at his words, his body flooded with pure want and he slammed into Sherlock once, twice more, his balls drawn up tight to his body before he came so hard his vision went black around the edges, Sherlock’s name on his lips as he cried out. 

When he came back to himself he was laying atop Sherlock, who had his hands in John’s hair and was stroking his scalp with his fingernails. John shivered in pleasure at the feeling after the stimulation that settled all over the rest of his body. 

“So good for me, John,” Sherlock was whispering and John couldn’t hold back the smile that came to his face, but he did hide it in the chest that he was resting his head against.

After a moment he carefully pushed himself up and pulled out of Sherlock. He watched for a moment before he saw his come leak out. On impulse, he pushed two fingers back inside Sherlock, holding his come there for just a moment longer. 

Sherlock sighed at the intrusion, his skin erupting in goosepimples, and John carefully slid his fingers out and then back in once more. He watched in fascination as Sherlock’s spent cock twitched in interest. Oh, he wanted Sherlock in his mouth again, and he had just come. 

Sherlock chuckled softly and smiled at him.

“I’ll need a bit more time before I can go again,” Sherlock said and John felt a smile twist his lips. 

He slowly removed his fingers, then, and went up Sherlock’s body to kiss him. Sherlock met him halfway and they shared a kiss filled with less heat than before, but no less passionate. 

He pulled back after a moment. “I’ll get a towel to clean us up,” he said, but Sherlock shook his head and pulled John back down. 

“In a minute. I want to hold you for now. It’s another fantasy of mine.”

“Holding me is a fantasy of yours?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply. “Just holding you. Or you holding me.”

John settled down into the space of Sherlock’s arms. They turned toward each other on the bed and after a moment Sherlock twisted his body to pull the duvet over their rapidly chilling bodies in the February chill. They held each other, and kissed, and hands gently explored as they ignored the sticky mess between them.

“Do you want to hear one of my favorite fantasies?” John asked later, when they were closer to sleep than wakefulness. Sherlock hummed in reply. 

“I have this fantasy,” John began, voice soft and slow in the darkness that has settled around them, “where we wake up like this every day. We have breakfast together before going to the clinic or going on cases, and in the evenings when we go to sleep, it’s in the same bed. Like this.” 

It was silent for a moment, the only sound their quiet breathing and the noise of midnight London outside the window. John knew it was a risk saying what he said. Confessing to Sherlock how much he hoped for, but he couldn’t imagine not taking the chance to speak his feelings after being given the opportunity. He felt like if he didn’t say anything, he might never get another chance. 

When Sherlock finally spoke, John found himself holding his breath. 

“I knew I was correct.”

“About what?” John asked, thrown by the random reply. 

“Fantasies are nice, but it’s really the execution of the fantasy that makes it fun,” Sherlock smiled. 

John laughed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, after all.”

“Want to see how many fantasies we can make a reality?” Sherlock asked with a raised brow and John smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure what happened here. These boys just wanted to get it on. I hope you enjoyed and have a wonderful Valentine’s!


End file.
